Chapter 1

In the summer of 1966, I was twenty years old, heading into my third and final year of nursing school, and dreading it. I loved nursing and really enjoyed school but dreaded everything it took to make it possible. During the school year, I was up by 6:00 a.m., at school by 7:00, and after an eight-hour day of classes and nursing clinical—on-the-job training for the student, free slave labor for the hospital—I went to work. Evenings and weekends I worked at the hospital as a nursing assistant or elsewhere at some other part-time job. Even though I worked two jobs every summer to save up money, I still had to work during the school year to make ends meet.

I was dreading starting on that grueling schedule again. There was never enough time for sleep, much less time for a social life. In spite of that, I was willing to put the rest of my life on hold while I worked my way through school. I had wanted to be a nurse since I was in grade school and was just a year away from that goal. My biggest concern that summer wasn't parties or dating anyway. It was money. The summer had started out promising because I was entering my final year of nursing school and was allowed to work at the hospital as the equivalent of an LPN as long as I was willing to work whenever and wherever they needed help. I had no set hours, just what I could pick up by filling in when someone else needed a day off. That meant being available to work any shift and a lot of weekends, but it was nursing and the pay was considerably better than I could make anywhere else. I had hopes that I could save up enough over the summer without taking on another job, and maybe I could even attend a party once in a while! With those possibilities, the summer had started off actually feeling a bit like summer vacation for a change.

Unfortunately, by the end of June, it was fizzling. The hospital was in the middle of a financial belt-tightening so it was getting harder to pick up anything but weekend time. Worse yet, rumors of layoffs were floating through the hospital so even those hours were in jeopardy. I now had too much time on my hands during the week but was working every weekend, switching shifts, double shifts, and being on-call for last-minute opportunities to work. Even with that, I wasn't getting enough money saved up to get through the school year. It was pretty clear that unless a bundle of money fell into my lap from some benevolent god, I was going to have to get a second job waiting on tables or whatever I could find, but I coasted through the first half of July hoping things would pick up at the hospital. I was dragging my feet about job hunting partly because going back to a non-nursing job was demoralizing, but more because I was so drained from two solid years of struggling that I just couldn't face the reality.

That is why I read with interest a bulletin board notice asking for nurses and students to work at a first-aid booth at an outside function on July 24. Usually, that meant a company picnic or such. Having spent a fair amount of hours working the emergency room, I felt qualified for the sprained ankles and bee stings these jobs usually amounted to and there was always an RN available if something big happened. It looked like easy money. I called the phone number on the notice to sign up and they took my name and told me to be at the Radisson Hotel at noon on the 24th, in uniform.

“A convention?”

“No. A reception.”

“Must be some reception if they need a first aid station!”

“Yes, it is. They are expecting a couple thousand screaming, pushing, fainting teenage girls when the Beatles arrive.”

The Beatles? The Beatles had hit America when I was a high school senior, too old for the silly crush of a thirteen-year-old, but definitely not too old to be a big fan. In spite of my tight budget, Beatle albums were always in my hands within days of their release. The poster covering the cracked plaster in my bedroom was none other than the Fab Four. I had regretfully decided that right now I really couldn't afford a ticket to the concert or to miss a possible last-minute call to work that night. I was a little too old to join the screamers waiting at the airport and hotel, in fact I was a little too old to admit how much I'd like to see them, but working the first aid booth might be a way to get a glimpse of the Fab Four, and I'd get paid for my time.

“I'll be there!”

When I arrived at the hotel at noon that day, the parking area was already filling with kids checking the layout to find the best spot to see, get close to, touch a Beatle. I parked my trusty Ford Falcon, regretfully closing the windows because thunderstorms were predicted even though it was miserably hot right then. My hospital ID and student nurse uniform got me past the security guards already in place. Nobody would wear a student nurse uniform unless they had to! White dress (“well below the knee,” page 7 of the student handbook), regulation blue and white pinstripe bib apron, white hose, big clunky white duty shoes, and, perched like a dejected seagull on my head, the nurse's cap with the blue stripe to remind people I was not a full-fledged nurse—if by some incredible visual deficit they managed to miss the blue apron.

Once inside, I quickly spotted another student nurse, a classmate named Connie. When the RN arrived we were herded together for a briefing by a man who was somehow connected with the Beatles U.S. tour but was disappointingly not British, much less Liverpudlian. We were told to expect hysterical crying, hyperventilation, fainting and to forget a gentle bedside manner and be firm. “Stop that right now!” was the recommended wording. We would be working closely with the security crew who all carried walkie-talkies. In the case of real injury, we were to notify the security crew. We were not to call for an ambulance unless absolutely necessary. Cars were available for transport to the hospital for all but the worst-case scenario. Screaming hysteria was encouraged, but injuries, especially those leading to ambulances and sirens, were Bad Publicity.

The first aid station was to be in the lobby. We set up shop with smelling salts—such a nice name for nasty smelling ammonia — for the faint and paper bags for the hyperventilating, and, tactfully off to the side, the blood pressure monitor and bandages for the Bad Publicity things that were not supposed to happen. Then we sat back to watch the spectacle as we waited for the scheduled one­-fifteen arrival of the Beatles. The crowds grew, barricades went up, the lobby filled with hotel workers milling around and rumors flew about which door they would come through.

Our first customer was a hotel employee who got mauled on his way into work by girls who said they would “do anything” if he could get them inside the hotel and “everything” if they could get into the Beatles rooms. We removed the splinter he got vaulting over a barricade to escape, gave him a Band-Aid, and listened as security informed him of his bleak job future if he tried to collect on any of the offers.

By one-fifteen the lobby was packed with hotel employees and security people squawking at each other over their walkie-talkies. There was a continuous hum from the crowd outside, broken with outbursts of singing and warm-up screaming. The tension level inside and out soared but it was nearly an hour and two premature hysteria cases later when we heard the crowd outside roar. At the same time, the wind picked up and in a few minutes, it was pouring rain. Security people started leading, dragging, and carrying sopping wet girls inside. We quickly had six patients sobbing, gasping, wheezing, or staring vacantly. It was really kind of disgusting to watch. I noted that reporters who tried to follow victims inside were promptly blocked by security people. One of the girls had been pushed to the ground and hit her head and she looked dazed. Well, they all looked dazed, but she looked medically dazed. I helped the RN move her back into the office behind us. She stayed with her and I went back out to check on our other patients.

A little later the RN came out of the office and informed security she wanted to take the girl to the hospital. She didn't think an ambulance was necessary so they agreed to bring a car up. In the meantime, Connie and I had sent four of the girls on their way and had two more come in. The rain thinned out the crowd quickly, so by the time the car pulled up Connie and I weren't worried about the RN leaving with the injured girl. The excitement was over. We started cleaning up the area and putting our supplies away, griping that we hadn't even seen their car much less a Beatle. Connie laughed and said, “Yeah, but we can tell people we had a wild time in their hotel!”

She went to escort the last of our patients out to her friends who were waiting under the portico. The lobby was empty and it seemed really weird after all the craziness minutes before. A real let down in fact. I was seriously considering taking a little look around — who knows who I might run into in the elevator!—when the elevator opened and a security guard got out, looked around, and headed in my direction. He came up to me and said, “They want you downstairs.”

I looked back for Connie but she was still outside talking to the fans. I asked the guard what had happened and he shrugged disinterestedly and said, “I don't know. They just told me to come up and get the first aid person.” He didn't seem to think it was anything major and a request for a first aid person didn't sound too bad, so I figured I wouldn't need help. I grabbed a couple of ammonia ampules, some paper bags, and a box of Kleenex and followed the guard.

We went down one floor, got out of the elevator, and walked down the hall. We were met at the double doors to the Nicolet Grand Ball Room by a big blond guy who said, “That will be all” to the security person. The accent was English and his face had that tight look of a person trying to appear calm in the face of disaster. My heart dropped down somewhere below my unflattering hemline. I turned to the first security guard to tell him to go back and get Connie and wishing like hell for a real nurse, not another student. Before I could say anything more, a big hand was propelling me through the doorway. The door slammed behind us and I turned to see a group of men. There was not a single hysterical or hyperventilating female fan in sight.

“Oh, God, I'm in big trouble here!” was all I had time to think before the men moved aside. Stretched out on a table was John Lennon. 

No Beatlemania shriek sprang to my lips, no squeal of “John, oh John! John! John!” No swooning, no giggling. I was terrified, flat out, mind-numbing, chest-hurting fear of the responsibility suddenly in front of me. If it had been an option, I would have run. Everyone looked at me expectantly. They thought help had arrived!

John groaned and started swearing. Some kind of nursing instinct got me moving and I walked up to the table. His eyes were closed, his face streaked with blood. Someone was holding a handkerchief to his forehead. John tried to sit up and I automatically put my shaking hand on his chest to hold him down. The ABC's of emergency care, Airway, Breathing, Circulation buzzed in my head. Echoed actually, because my brain was totally devoid of any other coherent thought. Thankfully, training had stepped in when rational thought abandoned ship and I at least knew where to start.

Airway. The patient was talking so his airway must be OK. On to breathing. I began to unbutton his shirt, watching the movement of his chest as I did so. “Respirations 18 per minute, regular, but somewhat labored,” I thought, mentally writing out my assessment.

I heard myself ask, “What happened?” in a cool, calm voice. Amazing, considering how badly my hands were shaking.

A British accented voice responded. “He fell. The railing gave way on the staircase and he went over.” Something in the voice, the way the “g” on “railing” was emphasized, struck a very familiar note. I looked up. George Harrison was standing across the table from me. I froze, staring at him, absolutely mesmerized. He looked at me, the face of the poster over my bed but with angry dark eyes. 

John groaned again and that broke my trance. Fingers shaking, I finally got the buttons undone and tugged his shirt open. Everything looked OK. Nothing stuck out and nothing crunched when I ran my hand over his rib cage. I pulled the shirt back on the side next to me. Everything looked OK there, so I leaned across him to pull the shirt back on his left side. His entire left side was that shade of dusky red that promised purple-black bruises. Fractured ribs? Pneumothorax? That would account for the rapid respirations, but so would pain. Or am I thinking of a hemothorax? Oh geez! What am I supposed to do if he does have something as serious as that? I don’t remember! OK, OK, don’t panic yet. Listen to his lungs. If he has either one he'll have diminished breath sounds.

I pulled the stethoscope from around my neck and as I did so I glanced at his face. His eyes were open now, watching me, those light brown eyes I knew so well. Eyes I had studied in pictures, dreamed about, were looking into mine, looking scared, looking for someone confident, someone who knew about Airway, Breathing, Circulation.

“I'm going to listen to your lungs, John,” I said. I put the stethoscope into my ears and began listening, going from left to right side to side to compare them. Clear, equal bilaterally. Relief at not finding evidence of bad chest trauma gave me hope of being able to handle the situation. That took care of the airway and breathing. Now circulation. I reached for John's wrist to check his pulse and he winced as I lifted his arm. I put it back down at his side and put the stethoscope back on his chest and listened to his heartbeat instead. It was strong, regular, only moderately rapid and his skin was warm, dry, pink. I hadn't brought a blood pressure cuff with me so I couldn't check that but he wasn't showing any other signs of shock. Now what? My mantra of Airway, Breathing, Circulation was used up. I went blank, couldn't think what I needed to do next. John might not be going into shock but I wasn't too sure about myself.

“How far did he fall?” I asked, stalling and hoping my brain would snap out of it.

Someone said, “All the way from the landing at the top to the floor.”

The big blond guy touched my arm and pointed to the main entrance to the Nicolet Room on the right. There was a sweeping grand staircase down the center. At the top of the stairs was a landing with elevators on the left and reception desk on the right. Just beyond the desk was a door marked Emergency Exit Only. The railing along the narrow landing in front of that door was broken away, and there was a twelve-foot drop to the dining room below where a table was tipped on its side with broken dishes scattered on the floor among the remains of the floral centerpiece.

I looked at the scene and my mouth went dry as I realized how far he had fallen. This could be bad. I was in way over my head. I almost asked for an ambulance right then, but common sense said to hold on, check him out first. So far all I had discovered was bruised ribs, not an ambulance worthy finding. “For God's sake”, I told myself, “don't look as panicked as you feel. He is scared enough.”

With a fall like that, a check for broken bones was in order and he had winced when I moved his arm. No, wait. Neuro checks first. Look for a spinal injury or head injury. Without lifting his arm, I carefully took his right hand in mine, then reached across him and took his other hand.

“John, I want you to squeeze my hands,” I said. He squeezed and grimaced. “Where does it hurt?” I asked.

“My arm.”

“Which one?”

He looked a little confused for a moment, then looked down at his right arm and said, “This one.”

I ran my hands from his shoulder down to his wrist. He winced but I didn't feel anything out of alignment. In my mind, a hospital form appeared and the words “Fractured Left Ribs, Fractured Right Ulna” were typing themselves in. The guy holding the handkerchief said, “He's hit his head. It's bleedin'.”

“I'll look at it in a moment,” I assured him. My ER experience had been enough to show me that unless blood was spurting up in your face or running down onto your shoes, it wasn't a priority. I asked John if he could move his feet and he did but he clenched his teeth as he did so. I ran my hands down his right leg. That leg seemed OK, so I moved around to the other side of the table and checked the other. No bones sticking out anywhere, but he winced again and said, “Ow! My knee.”

OK, add knee injury to the list. I moved up and checked his left arm. It didn't seem to hurt when I touched his lower arm, but as I moved upward toward his shoulder I felt him tense up and heard him gasp. The list of minor injuries I was imagining seeing on the hospital form disappeared and were replaced with the more ominous “Multiple Trauma.” As I checked out his shoulder, I could see more bruising. I ran my hand along his collar bone and quickly reached across to feel the other one to compare it. Yes, definitely a fracture here.

Well, I had enough to justify an ambulance. I looked up and met George's eyes. The anger seemed to have faded and he just looked worried. The big blond guy was still at my side, but now there were at least a dozen people in the room. “I need someone to go up and get the other nurse,” I said to the big guy. “Tell her to bring down the blood pressure cuff and bandages, and tell security to call for an ambulance.”

He barked out orders. Someone went after Connie, someone for security. Someone was to find out if Brian had arrived yet. Someone was to “get the bloody hell back out there and check on the others and find the goddamn hotel manager and the bloody bastard who arranged security—and keep the fuckin’ reporters out of it.”

I turned back to John. His eyes were closed, his face registering pain. I counted his respirations, listened to his lungs and heart rate again, still worried about a developing pneumothorax or hemothorax or some other dreadful thorax thing I hadn't learned about yet. Respirations and heart rate had slowed a bit to a more normal number. I reached into my pocket for my penlight and said, “John, I want to look at your eyes.” He opened his eyes and I checked his pupils. Contact lenses. I never knew he wore contacts! This was no time to get sidetracked by Beatles trivia. Pupils were equal and briskly reactive. Thank God.

“What's your name?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I were nuts, but said, “John Lennon.”

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“Mal keeps track of that for me.”

“What day is it?”

“The last fuckin' day of our last fuckin' American tour.”

George laughed at that, but not as if it were funny. Well, even if John's answers weren't the classic responses to person, place and time, they seemed appropriate, all things considered, but I still wasn't sure he was really with it. “Where are you from?”

“Liverpool.”

“When is your birthday?”

“October 9 and me favorite color is blue and me favorite food is fish'n chips,” John answered in the sing-song voice of someone repeating something for the hundredth time, classic answers to the types of questions they were used to. George laughed and this time he sounded amused. I was relieved as much as amused. He wasn't lethargic, obtunded, stuporous or any other ominous neurological word. His head was fine if he was able to make jokes. I explained to John that I was trying to see if he had a concussion.

“Do you remember falling?”

“The last thing I remember is getting into the limo at the airport.”

I looked up at George. “Was he unconscious at any time?”

“Not out cold really. Just a bit off for a minute, then he was trying to sit up.”

“His head is bleedin'” said the worried handkerchief guy again.

I walked around him to get a look at the cut. Lifting the saturated handkerchief, I was relieved to see it wasn't major. The gash was just behind the hairline and was an inch long, fairly deep. Like most scalp lacerations, it was bleeding quite a bit and therefore looking worse than it was. I gingerly touched the surrounding area, trying to feel for signs of a skull fracture. Nothing gave under gentle pressure so if there was a fracture it was a crack and not an area of crunched, fragmented bone. There was blood was all down the side of his face and in his ear and on the tablecloth. “Go get a bunch of washcloths, a bar of soap and some water and I'll clean him up a bit,” I said, feeling confident again. Swabbing up blood was something I could handle.

The handkerchief guy left and I moved down alongside John to listen to his lungs again. The big guy stood on the other side. “How are you doing, John?” he asked.

“I'm OK Mal, but you'd best round up another guitar for tomorrow.”

I put my hands in John's and asked him to squeeze again. Nothing happened. I looked quickly at his face. He was grinning at me and my nursing cool absolutely, totally disappeared. Then, as he squeezed my fingers, he looked down at my chest and said, “First your hands, Luv.”

I was used to such comments from frisky old men and drunks in the emergency room, but I could feel my face turn pink. George laughed. A response that I had heard an ER nurse use blurted out of my mouth.

“Try it and end up in a full-body cast!”

John burst out laughing but the laughing quickly turned into “Ow, ow, ow!” and he groaned, “I think I need one anyway. Is there anything that isn't broke then?”

“Your nose looks fine,” Mal said. John started to laugh again, trying not to, knowing it would hurt and swearing at Mal for making him laugh.

“Sounds like the same old John to me,” said a voice. I turned around to see a man with a familiar face coming into the room followed by more men in suits. As he walked up to us I recognized him as Brian Epstein. His jaunty step halted when he saw the blood on John's face. He looked horrified. He went pale and his voice was shaky as he looked at me and asked, “How bad is he?”

“I'm OK, Brian,” John said.

“He has a fractured clavicle, possibly a broken right arm and left leg. We'll need x-rays to be sure. He has a lot of bruising on his left side and may have some fractured ribs there. The cut on his head will need stitches and we'll need skull x-rays.” Man, I sounded good even if I felt totally incompetent!

“Oh my God! You've got to get him to a hospital!” Brian was really shaken.

“Yes. The ambulance should be on its way,” I reassured him.

Suddenly the door burst open and Connie was shoved through in a halo of flashbulbs. The reporters had found us.

“Oh God,” said Brian.

Mal and several others rushed to push the reporters back out the door. Connie came up to me, took one look at John and went white. She made a funny little sound and proceeded to tilt against Brian and slide toward the floor.

“Oh God,” said Brian again.

As I grabbed for Connie and lowered her the rest of the way to the floor I could hear John and George laughing. I started giggling and ended up sitting on the floor next to Connie laughing so hard I could barely get the ammonia ampule out of my pocket. I snapped it and waved it under her nose. She came around promptly and tried to sit up. When she got some color back in her face, I had two of the guys help her into a chair and went back to check on John. He asked if she was all right and I said yes and then we both started to laugh, John trying to stop because it hurt, and me trying to stop because it was a terrible thing for a nurse to do. George just kept laughing.

I listened to John's lungs again, checked his blood pressure with the cuff Connie had brought, then got some packages of gauze squares out of the bag and began to open them. His head was still bleeding and I gingerly put pressure on the cut. George had moved away and was deep in conference with Brian and another man, a man distinctive in this crowd because he was old enough to have a touch of gray hair. They came over to John and told him they were going out to talk to the reporters. John said, “Tell 'em I'm dead, Tony. Make their day, that would.”

Brian, still looking really shaken, made “tsk-tsk-now-John” noises and left with Tony.

George stood silently across the table from me. A minute or so later someone else came up and stood next to him. I didn't look up until a hand reached out and touched John on the shoulder. A hand with rings on it. I suddenly felt a tad woozy. I think that was when it really hit me that these were THE Beatles.

John opened his eyes and Ringo said, “Hey Johnny, you OK mate?”

“Been better,” John answered.

Ringo squeezed John's shoulder. John gasped and I winced.

“That shoulder is a little banged up,” I said.

“Broken,” John corrected confidently.

Ringo looked at me, his blue-gray eyes calm but questioning. I repeated the list of injuries. Ringo asked what a clavicle was. Holding pressure on John's head with my left hand, I explained that it was the collar bone and pointed out where the break was. I was suddenly aware that John was looking at someone behind me. I don't know if it was the look on John's face or just that it was logical, but I knew right away Paul was behind me.

I felt a hand on my right shoulder as Paul leaned in against me and reached down along my left arm. If I had felt woozy on looking up to see Ringo, that was gone now. Every sense I had was wide open. I was completely aware of every inch of my body where he touched me; his hand firm on my shoulder, his arm across my back, his chest where he leaned against my shoulder and back, his hip against my backside, his thigh at the back of my leg. Dark, shining hair, smooth cheek, dark eyelashes. Aftershave and tobacco and sweat. Rolled up sleeves of a light blue shirt. Black hairs on his arm and the back of his hand. Strong fingers reaching for my hand, lifting and turning it so he could look under the gauze.

“No brains leaking out,” he said. Low, soft voice. Softer, deeper than I expected.

John snorted, “Get on. If I had any brains I wouldn't be here in the first place.” Paul sighed, straightened up, took his hand from my shoulder and stepped away. I somehow remembered that human beings have to breathe now and again, took a breath, and braced myself against an urge to turn and stare at him. Or touch him. Or lean against him to see how it felt from the front. I realized John was looking at me and I tried to refocus on the bloody bandage in my hand and the gash on his head.

Mal was back and so was the guy with the soap and water. I got busy opening the bar of soap. George started yelling at Mal, “What the bloody hell happened? Why did they bring us in that side door? We are supposed to have enough security to walk in the front door, not be chased halfway across the fucking parking lot!”

A loud and angry discussion followed with everyone yelling, George and Ringo about the shitty security and lousy planning, others yelling back about not being able to control the weather or traffic or airlines. Paul was saying “Get off it, you lot! The reporters outside are getting all this!”

From what I could make out, the plane was late arriving, the traffic slow, and by the time they got to the hotel, the fans were frantic. When the wind came up ahead of the rain, dust flew and the guards got it in the face. The fans, with the wind at their backs, saw security break ranks and promptly broke through the barricade next to the entrance security planned to use. Paul and Ringo made it safely inside, but John and George were cut off. The security people grabbed them and headed for the next closest door. John was pushed through, certainly not expecting to find himself on a ledge twelve feet up in the air. George was pushed through on top of him with a half-dozen bodyguards and policemen behind them and a mob of girls behind them. John hit the rail which must have had a loose post because it gave way. George, right behind him, managed to grab a railing post that held and dropped to the floor, landing on his feet.

John listened quietly to the outburst as I scrubbed the blood off his face and out of his ear. When the discussion settled down, he said, “Looks like everyone is cooling down.” I didn't think anything of his remark until I looked up from my scrubbing to his eyes. He was watching me closely, smiling. Curious about my reaction to seeing the famous Beatles having a collective fit? No, not curious, more amused? Oh no! He was looking at me the whole time Paul had been next to me. Had he seen me come completely unglued? I felt my face go hot and I knew I was turning red. John chuckled, confirming my fears.

Connie suddenly appeared at my side and asked, “Can I help?” Our eyes met and she gave me a pleading look. I knew she must have been really embarrassed and needed to be useful and at that moment, I was grateful for the interruption.

I handed the washcloth to her and said, “I need to check out George and make sure he's OK.”

As I turned away I heard John ask her quietly “What's your name, Luv?”

The yelling was over. Brian and the other guy were back, talking quietly to Paul at one of the tables. Well, the other guy was talking. Brian was sitting at the table with a hand hiding his face. I got the distinct impression he was fighting tears. George, Ringo and everyone else stood awkwardly around. As I approached them, Brian sat up straight, swiped at his eyes, and joined the conversation, a discussion of who would accompany John to the hospital. I went up to George and touched his arm.

“They said you fell, too. I want to make sure you are all right.”

A little smile, a lopsided, heart-catching George-smile appeared. “I'm fine Luv, take care of John.”

“Are you sure?” If he was hurt I'd go down in history as the nurse who left George Harrison to die. “I think I should check you over.” This time I got a big smile from him, and he took my hand. His grip was warm and strong. As he led me back over to John, I found myself wondering what it would feel like to have his arm around me and was a little shocked at myself. I didn't usually react this way to men. Generally, I took a little time to get to know them before I had thoughts about how nice they would be to touch!

“Hey, John,” George said. “You've got to keep her busy. She wants to rip my shirt open and put that cold thingy on my chest.”

“Watch yourself, lad. Next thing you know it will be 'Bend over and cough'.”

George and I laughed, John laughed and grimaced. “God, it hurts to take a breath,” he said.

I took my cold thingy and listened to his lungs again. Was I missing something? Would I become the nurse who left George Harrison to die and missed the signs of impending respiratory arrest in John Lennon? I looked at Connie and without saying anything she took her stethoscope and listened. When she finished, she confirmed, “Equal bilaterally.”

“Is it getting harder to breathe than it was at first?” I asked.

“No, except when I think about squeezing your—”

“I know worse things than bend over and cough!” I warned him.

More laughter. “What's your name?” he asked, trying to read my name tag.

“Terry Martin.”

Then we were saved. The doors opened and the ambulance crew came in, two men in white uniforms without silly blue aprons. I gave them a report as they began assessing John. They took over and Connie and I stepped back. Mal said, “Let's get ready” and he and the other crew left the room, apparently to get ready to move John out through the waiting reporters. The gray-haired man and the handkerchief guy came over to thank us for our help. They introduced themselves as Tony Barrow and Neil Aspinall. When Connie tried to apologize for fainting, they laughed.

“It's the first time I ever thought anyone had a good reason to faint from looking at John!” Neil said.

I watched as they put splints on John’s right arm and left leg. When they were done, I went back to him. He was pale and looked very uncomfortable. “As soon as you get to the hospital, they can give you something for pain,” I told him.

The ambulance crew brought the stretcher over next to the table and explained to John that they needed to slide him over on to it. After a brief discussion of whether to use the table cloth to lift (“Most people just take hotel ashtrays and towels” John commented.) they asked for some help. I held his head, Connie took his feet. George and Ringo were on one side and the ambulance men and Paul on the other. John didn't yell as we moved him, but he gasped, then gritted his teeth. He was white and sweating when we got him in place.

Ringo came around the table and bent over him. I went to get a washcloth from the chair where we had put the bandages and stuff when we moved him. There was a water pitcher on the next table and I dunked the washcloth in it. When I got back to John, Paul and George were standing next to him looking helpless. Ringo was still leaning down and talking to him. “Easy John, easy,” he was saying softly. I wiped John's face with the cold washcloth and he opened his eyes just long enough to see it was me. “Ta, Luv,” he said.

The ambulance men reached in to fasten the safety belts around John. “Wait,” I said and handed the washcloth to Ringo. I moved around to the side and began pulling John's shirt back together and buttoning it. It just didn't seem right to take him out half-dressed. Or maybe I just wanted another minute with him. Then I helped fasten the safety belts. One of the ambulance guys unlocked the wheels on the stretcher and began to push it toward the door. Paul reached out a hand as if to stop him, then, uncertain, shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away. The ambulance man hesitated and looked at his partner who shrugged. “Give them a minute,” he said. “He's stable.”

He nodded and moved away. Connie and I backed away and tried to look busy picking up our supplies. We took the trash to the far side of the room to a wastebasket, then we turned back and stared. “It's really them!” Connie said in awe and we just stood and stared some more.

Tony and Neil came back in, looked at Paul, George, and Ringo grouped around John and came over to us. “It would be best if you wait in here a bit before you try to leave. Most of the reporters will follow us, but hotel security has been told to make certain you get to your cars,” Tony said. “If the reporters do get to you, we'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk to them.”

“We won't,” we both promised.

“They'll be persistent. They have a way of getting on, making you feel like you have to answer them,” Neil warned.

“We can't tell them anything” I explained. “It would be unethical, a breach of patient confidentiality.”

That brought the first smile I'd seen to Tony's face. “Great! Thanks again.”

To Neil, he said, “Let's get the others back upstairs.”

Connie and I watched as the ambulance men moved John out the door. Everyone laughed when Ringo called after John, “Remember, you won't get ice cream unless you do as the sisters say!”

It was so quiet when the door shut. The three remaining Beatles stood in the middle of the room just looking at each other. It was a long and miserable moment. Paul moved first, walking toward the grand staircase and the others followed. They were halfway up when the door opened and one of the ambulance guys stuck his head back in. “He says he's not leaving without Terry.”

“Terry?” said Paul in surprise.

“Why Terry?” asked Ringo.

“Which Terry?” asked George.

I was halfway to the door when I heard Neil say, “That Terry!”

As I reached the door, George said, “Good choice!” and they laughed. I looked back and gave them a little wave as I ducked out the door under the arm of the ambulance man. I took away the picture of the three of them standing on the staircase, smiling at me.

The ambulance crew was waiting in the front lobby. I moved up next to John and put one hand on his chest.

“Come with me, Terry?” he asked, and I said, “OK John.” With those simple words, the chance encounter that brought the Beatles into my life began to change my life.